The Romeo y Julieta Marque
by Kairos27
Summary: Santana, Lord Tubbington, cigars, Santana's potty mouth: and how it all comes back to Brittany.
1. Right Track Baby

"_Romeo y Julieta" is a brand of cigar. Yes, I chose it on purpose._

Saturday, she's reclining on the steps of the back porch, the cigar dangling treacherously low from on her lips. Low like the neckline of her shirt (it's a fucking warm day). Low like her mood and, oh, like her fucking love life.

That is, it _would_ be low if she even had one. Because no one loves her and no, she's _really_ not that hilarious.

_I do love you. Clearly you don't love you as much as I do, or you'd put this shirt on and you would dance with me._

Santana growls in frustration and flicks the cigar sharply. Ashes fly, settling on her shirt and at her feet.

Speaking of her feet. She blinks, and narrows her eyes.

Brittany's fat cat is standing almost on top of them, his stomach practically dragging on the grass. Really, putting him on Atkins was not the best idea. "The hell you want, you stupid cat?"

Wait, wrong question. "How did you get here?"

Lord Tubbington, or whatever his name is, ignores Santana's obvious confusion and climbs straight up into her fucking lap; it takes some effort because he's so fat, but he does it anyway and pokes his nose right up into her grill. Santana yelps and almost loses her seat. "What the fuck, cat?" She tries to remove him with one arm — really, swear to God, she's not all that fond of cats, but Brittany might not forgive her if she sets Lord Tubbington's fur on fire with the cigar. But she can't just push the damn thing off her lap; if he gets injured, she'll be in so much shit.

Actually, she's already in it, but for some reason she's trying to care this time.

As if Brittany would be giving her second, third, fourth chances any time soon. Fuck. She wasn't going to think about that, but now—the fucking cat is going after her fucking cigar. She maneuvers the hand holding the cigar out of the reach of Lord Tubbington's paws. "Are you trying to get me into more fucking trouble with Britt? She's going to smell me on you, and then she'll smell the smoke, and then she'll think that I'm trying to kill you with kitty lung cancer or some shit. So fuck off."

Lord Tubbington apparently doesn't give any sort of shit. Much like everyone in her damn life, apparently. You start giving shits and all of a sudden nobody else does. Or something. Whatever. Her arm slackens and her grip loosens; Lord Tubbington stretches his neck out and snags the cigar in his yawning kitty mouth, and settles further into Santana's lap.

He's so heavy and his fur is uncomfortably warm and close. With the lingering smell of cigar smoke hanging around her breath, she swallows and leans in, breathing deeply through her nose as she buries her face unwillingly in Lord Tubbington's fur.

Because after all, Brittany uses her own shampoo on Lord Tubbington.


	2. Another Lonely Day

"I fucked up."

Lord Tubbington looks at her, chewing on his cigar in an almost thoughtful manner. The fat cat has been coming over on a regular basis, ever since that day he'd arrived her back porch with the obvious intent of stealing her smokes. Santana actually drove him back to Brittany's that night – the first time she'd dared to show her face in the neighborhood ever since the day that…well, it seems so long ago now. Santana hadn't dared to knock, though – just shoved the tubby tabby through his stupid little cat door and ran for it.

And then, of course she pretended not to notice when Brittany looked at her all during Glee the following Monday.

Santana had thought that that was a onetime deal, but no such luck. Lord Tubbington keeps showing up at her porch, trying to get his smoking on. It's really annoying at first, and it's not like she's rolling in cigars (the Cuban embargo makes it a real pain in the ass to get the brands she wants to try). She has to ration them even without some fatty feline trying to make her fucking share.

But these days she's all too aware of the distance she and Brittany have been putting in between each other. She hasn't been this far apart from Brittany since forever, when they swore to be best friends and look out for each other in the swampy morass that was high school. And while she wasn't sure that it was a good thing that Lord Tubbington hung out with her instead of cockblocking Artie (Brittany's cats are exceptionally skilled at that – Santana can personally attest), at least she could pretend that if Lord Tubbington preferred her company to Artie's, she can't be all that bad for Brittany, right? Especially since Brittany adores and spoils him fucking rotten and takes his (nonexistent, if you ask Santana) opinions seriously.

Now Brittany's broken up with Artie and Santana's just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life – second only to panicking and telling Brittany that she was only using her for sex. Inferring that _Dave fucking Karofsky_ is her soulmate just shows what a worthless bitch she really is, pretending to be all lovey-dovey and shit with a self-hating homophobe because she's too cowardly to accept the only offer she ever wanted from the bravest woman she's ever known.

And now for the first time she's finally, fully convinced that she doesn't deserve Brittany.

Guilt piles on self-loathing which piles on more guilt, as she clenches her teeth around her cigar. It speaks to her awesome genetics that smoking doesn't really do much to sully her teeth. But what use are awesome genetics if she doesn't have anything to go with it?

She can't even feel good about the fact that Lord Tubbington is here instead of being showered with Brittany kisses and cuddles; it makes her feel worse. "You shouldn't just be sitting there," she mumbles. "You should be, like, scratching my fucking face off."

Lord Tubbington continues to smoke, unperturbed.

"It's over, Garfield." Santana finishes her cigar and listlessly crushes the remains under her shoe. "I'm lucky if she even so much as looks at me anymore. I – she was looking at me like that and I just…blurted it out. I should have kneed Jewfro in the fucking _balls_. I should have said…" She winces at the all-too familiar burning in her sinuses. Fuck, it seems like she's been crying nonstop for such a long time. Deep breaths, deep breaths – Lord Tubbington's just a cat, but she can't cry in front of him, she's just so sick of crying. The cat makes eye contact with her and she hurriedly brushes an arm over the dampness showing on her face.

"Next time you come," she begins, and she can only hope (and feel stupid for hoping) that there will be a next time because now it seems like this fat cat's company will be all she'll have left of Brittany. She clears her throat and licks her lips. "Next time you come around here, don't expect the good Cuban stuff. I gave you the last one."


	3. See That Girl

Midnight, and Santana has traded in her devil-red dress and smudged mascara for an old t-shirt and basketball shorts. Lord Tubbington is waiting for her on the back porch when she steps outside, and she nearly goes into fucking cardiac arrest when she first sees his eyes glowing in the dark. "Isn't it past your curfew, you stupid fucking cat?"

The cat meows and saunters up to her, expectant. His stomach sways in step with his stride. It almost reminds her of Zizes' boobs. Whatever. Santana knows that Brittany's out at a prom afterparty with Mike and Tina; makes sense that there wouldn't be anyone around to enforce Lord Tubbington's curfew, even if he had one.

If Santana had been the same person she was at the beginning of the year, she would have been all over those afterparties. That's how they did it in Lima Heights - but now prom had come and there was nothing for her tonight. Not tonight, not this Santana.

Santana sighs and produces the cigar from her pocket; she cuts it, lights it, and hands it over. Lord Tubbington accepts it daintily; Santana rolls her eyes. Her supplier won't be getting the next shipment of good Cubans until next week. So she breaks into her dad's cigar stash, which is some sort of crap (okay, maybe not crap, but just not as good as the usual) from Nicaragua or something, but anyway she figures Lord Tubbington isn't a choosy smoker.

Santana reclines on the steps, the cat smoking on the step near her elbow. She'd meant to smoke that cigar herself, but whatever, she only brought one out and she didn't feel like going back inside and getting another one. Her father might notice if she took too many out at one time, anyway.

She sighs deeply through her mouth, tasting the smell of wet grass and slowly burning tobacco and all the other indescribable scents of a warm spring night, with the solid warmth of the cat resting against her bare forearm. It almost makes her forget about the worst prom ever.

Not that she'd ever been to any other proms, but this one…she'd been betting so much on it. And of course Brittany, always Brittany, had to show her just how much a ridiculous bitch she was being. After forgiving her for the hundredth time and saying stuff like _they don't know what you're hiding, they just know you're not being yourself. If you had embraced all the awesomeness that you are, you would have won._ Stuff like that.

_I believe in you_.

Anyone could say those words to her and they'd just roll off her back. Only when Brittany says those words do they cut deep and true into Santana's heart. She sighs again and looks over at Lord Tubbington, who sits there placidly smoking even as she reaches out and moves her hand gently across his fur.

"She believes in me," Santana murmurs; he turns his head briefly towards her and then looks away again. "But what does that mean? What do I do now?"

She tenses when she hears the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. But her fears are almost immediately relieved when she hears Mike's voice: "Tina, you sure this is the right address?"

Tina's been to Santana's before, thanks to their collaboration on 'Trouty Mouth'. Miss Not-So-Self-Hating Asian is pretty cool, actually, for all the shit Santana gives her about her eyes. Tina just lets it slide, like Wheezy does. "Yeah, Mike. I'm sure. And even if I was wrong, Brittany would know."

"You did good, Tina. I smell Lord Tubbington." _Brittany_.

Santana's breath catches in her throat and Lord Tubbington looks at her, almost patronizingly. Before Santana can yank that damn cigar out of his mouth, the side gate opens and Brittany is upon them, still in her frilly lime green dress. Her little hat is nowhere to be seen. Mike and Tina aren't with her. "I knew he'd be here. I'm going to ground him."

Santana says nothing. She lowers her head, looking at Brittany's bare dancer feet as Brittany continues talking. "I keep telling him smoking is bad, but he won't listen. I know it's hard to say no to Lord Tubbington, but he can't come visit you anymore because smoking's bad for him."

_He can't come visit you anymore. _Santana clenches her jaw. Okay, that stupid fat cat _is_ a pain in the ass, no doubt about it, but at least he didn't have a voice to judge her, to tell her what she didn't want to hear. All of a sudden it feels like he's all Santana has left - and now Brittany's trying to take him away. "Whatever," she says instead. And then, she adds, without really knowing why, "Just let him finish this last cigar and then I'll cut him off for good."

Her eyes fix themselves on the ground, but she notices when Brittany moves to sit on the porch steps next to her. Her shoulder bumps briefly against Santana's as she smoothes her dress out.

"I think he'd want to keep hanging out, Santana," Brittany says quietly, in that calm, level voice that is quintessentially Brittany. But even the quintessential has changed – her voice used to be higher, soft and airy and a little lost. Now it's deeper and stronger, and more assured. "You can't bring cigars, but can still come to my house, since he'll be grounded, like, forever, for smoking and breaking his curfew."

_I can't just –I can't – _no. She can't say that out loud.

Guilt floods the pit of Santana's stomach again. She flinches, and Brittany notices.

"I – Britt, I—" and damn the tears that never stop coming. "I didn't go on your melted cheese show. I fucked up so badly, I…" Now that she's qualified her statement, she sucks in a breath and continues. "I can't go to your house."

"Santana, were you listening to me at all tonight?" Brittany's voice is gentle, which prevents Santana from taking much offense.

She snorts softly, instead. "I sang for Kurt. Of course I listened to you."

"No, I meant the stuff before that."

_I believe in you_. "I know what you said, Brittany."

Brittany reclines on the porch steps, mirroring Santana's position. "When I said I believe in you, I meant I believed you. I know you don't believe me a lot of the time, but maybe that was my fault because I say stupid things a lot."

"You're not stupid." It's a reflex now, and it makes Santana's blood boil to remember what Artie had said to Brittany that had caused their recent rift. Okay, so they broke up? Cool, but Four Eyes didn't have to call her _stupid_.

"Thanks." Brittany smiles faintly. "But what I mean, Santana, is…well, I meant a lot of things. I believed you when you said you wanted to be with me. I believed you when you said you loved me. And I still believe you." Santana can feel Brittany's eyes resting on her, in all the right places. "I believed that you would love you as much as I do. And I still believe that you will. That's what I meant."

Santana swallows against the all-too-familiar lump in her throat. It's almost as if it lives there, now. Making it hard to breathe or eat or sleep. "I'm trying," she croaks out. It sounds insincere, flat. If there's anything Brittany won't believe it, it's that. Not even if it _feels_ like Santana's trying. "I'll try harder. Trust me," she says, a pleading note slipping unbidden into her voice.

"I know," Brittany says, after a short silence. "I do. I wish you would trust me…but I can wait. I know one day you will."

Santana's got nothing to lose, trusting Brittany. After all, what does she have to lose anyway? She has no crown, no girl, just a big gay beard who she probably won't be with much longer. It would be so easy to say yes, but she knows she's not there yet. "You don't have to, Brittany. I've been messing up right and left, and it might take a long time for me to be who you want me to be."

Brittany smiles, and Santana only knows this because she actually looks up to face Brittany. "I don't want you to be anything but you, Santana. I already said you were the awesomest. I just want you," and Santana's breath snags again at the sound of her long-ago words being repeated back to her. "The only thing you really have change is to stop hiding. I know that's like a zillion times scarier than Jafar and Ursula and Voldemort because it's, like, real life and not a movie…but like I said, Santana. I believe in the awesomeness that you are."

Santana bows her head. "I…" _I love you. I love you. _The words and all of the truth that comes with them burst like a firework in her chest, scattering the remnants of guilt that remain. "I know."

"Just because we've been talking about feelings and stuff, Santana," Brittany says quietly, "we're still friends. If we weren't, you wouldn't have come to find me after Artie and I broke up."

Suddenly, Lord Tubbington spits out the finished cigar. Grateful for the distraction, Santana reaches to stub it out. "Last one for you, cat."

"I'd better take him home," Brittany says, aware of the change in conversation. "Mike and Tina are probably making out in the car right now, but I bet they want to go home and do it in bed instead of in a car."

"Uh. Okay."

Brittany picks up her cat, and they make their way to the driveway. Sure enough, Mike and Tina are making out. Santana bangs on the window. "Yo, Chang! Brittany's ready to go home. Get her home safe or I will fuck you and Brown Eyes up to the fourth generation."

The two Asians break away from each other and roll their eyes. Brittany turns to Santana. "So…Lord Tubbington knows if you want to come over and visit?"

"I…I'll try."

"Do you mind if I hang out with you guys?"

For the first time since coming home, Santana smiles. "No, we don't mind at all."


	4. Back To Her

Things are okay between Santana and Brittany now. It's not great, not the best, but good enough. If Santana was going to be completely honest (which she never really is, what the fuck), ever since her stupid love confession at the lockers, she'd almost forgotten what it was like to be Brittany's best friend, what with all the crap that came with falling head over heels in love with said best friend. It seemed like it would hurt too much to be close to Brittany and not be able to have her – and it still hurt, Santana wasn't going to lie about that – but the pain had dulled, because Brittany hadn't taken Artie back this time around, even though technically she had every right to.

They're getting back to the best friends stage. One step at a time, Santana tells herself. And she'll find a way back to where Brittany wants her – embracing the awesomeness that Brittany is so convinced that she has, even though Brittany should be the last person to believe in that.

Step One was signing up to audition for the Nationals solo. Glee is all that makes Santana actually feel halfway decent about herself, so she started there. Of course St. James had to be a dick about it, but Brittany says, "I totally think you should have won the solo because when I interviewed him, Jesse said you were too mean, which is weird because he's all about being too mean, so I don't get why he wanted Rachel to have it anyway," and it's nice to be reminded that Brittany still believes in her. She finally starts going to Brittany's house after school again – Brittany always keeps the video camera out of sight.

Lord Tubbington has been smoke-free for a few weeks now, and he's irritable. He refuses to look at Santana when she walks through Brittany's front door. She scowls at him. "It's not my fault Brittany made me cut you off."

"I think he wouldn't be so mad if you would quit too. Then you and him could form a support group," Brittany says.

"Unlike Garfield here, I needs my cigars," Santana sniffs.

Brittany sighs. "Yeah, I know, it helps you get that raspy voice so you can sing your Amy Winehouse. But Santana, it's not, like, good for you."

She doesn't continue. Santana sighs, knowing that if Brittany had gone on to say, "_I really want you to stop smoking_," she probably would have gone straight home and thrown out the Cubans that had just come in that afternoon. The thought that Brittany _hadn't_ said this, which then gave her an excuse to continue smoking, makes her feel guiltier. "I…won't bring them to New York, okay Britt? I'm not, like, addicted or anything."

Brittany smiles and shrugs. Brittany's put Santana first so many times, and even now she wasn't stopping.

And if only Santana had been here a few weeks ago, when Brittany had asked her to come on that stupid melted cheese show, maybe Santana would be feeling something better than guilty—

Santana is suddenly struck with an idea. An ultimately scary idea, but an idea nonetheless. While Brittany isn't within hearing distance, Santana throws a glance at Lord Tubbington, who finally deigns to look back. "Since you read her diary or some shit, I hope you know where she hides things," she mutters.


	5. Love All Right

_This is the last chapter. Given the ending, maybe there will be a sequel from Brittany's side._

_Thank you for reading, and remember: it's on. It was always on._

* * *

><p>Junior year is finally over.<p>

Brittany and her family are off visiting the Grand Canyon or whatever, and since Brittany's convinced that Santana and Lord Tubbington are now good friends, having bonded over their cigars – and Santana still hasn't quit, but she swears she will once this all gets figured out and Brittany will kiss her again, like_ really_ kiss her – anyway, Brittany asked Santana to look after Lord Tubbington while the Pierces were on vacation, and also pick up their mail and newspapers. Santana had grumbled, but agreed pretty much right away, eliciting a tight hug from her best friend.

That's what they are now. Best friends, again.

But today, this — _this_ might change things all over again. Just like 'Landslide' did.

Today is the day before Brittany's family returns from Arizona, and Santana shows up with Lord Tubbington's favored seasoned sea bass entrée (prepared by the supermarket's hot deli, after some minor bribing and threatening to go all Lima Heights from Santana), and the Pierces' spare key. It seems like the fat cat has finally forgiven her for not supplying him with cigars anymore, although the food bribes probably help.

However, bribing is the least of her problems today. "I'm not ready," she mutters to herself. "I don't know if I'm ready."

Lord Tubbington, as usual, couldn't care less. The cat meows insistently at the dish Santana holds in her hand. "Uh-uh, tubby tabby. Not until you show me where Brittany hides the camera."

The cat stares at her for a long moment, and then leads her up the stairs to Brittany's closet, where she finds it tucked next to a couple of shoeboxes. He even nudges the tripod out from its hiding place under Brittany's bed for her. "You really want me to do this, huh? Or do you actually think you're going to get fondue out of this? Or a Cuban, even though I know you're on the patch or whatever the fuck? Nah, don't count on it, fatso. You just get sea bass," she rambles, setting the dish down.

Apparently, the stupid cat doesn't mind at all that he's getting fish instead of fondue. She sets up the camera with shaking fingers as Lord Tubbington digs into the fish.

Santana swallows, telling herself that if she's really not ready, then she can just not post the footage or whatever. Lord Tubbington had scrounged up the piece of paper with Brittany's Youtube password on it for her, and it's in her pocket somewhere. In case. But for now, she'll just do the taping. Just in case. _Just in case…_

She presses the RECORD button and sits down in Brittany's chair, sucking in a big gulp of air.

* * *

><p><em>So, uh…I think I'm on. The red light is blinking. So I think it should be recording. Okay. So, uh…maybe I should've written a script or something, but I didn't. So I'm going to have to wing it, I guess.<em>

_Brittany, I…well, I…I mean, I just…ugh. _

_Fuck. Fuck this being polite in front of the camera shit. Like, okay, I know Jewfro subscribes to this channel because of the gossip and also because he wants to catch a glimpse of the underwear in Britt's closet. Not going to happen. You're a child pornographer waiting to happen, Jewfro, if you haven't happened already. Now sit the fuck down and listen to what I have to say. _

_I'm doing this for Brittany. I know I was supposed to come on this dumb show, like, a couple weeks ago before prom. And, yeah, you were probably all thinking, 'yeah, Santana's such a bitch she can't even keep her own promises to her best friend, so she had to interview her dumb cat who smokes' or whatever. Well, duh. I am a bitch. Deal with it. I'm Santana Lopez, motherfuckers, and I keep it real. And, like. I know a whole bunch of you are still judging me through the screen of whatever doodad you're using to watch this. Just…you know what? Just shut the fuck up if you think I _wanted_ to be a bitch to Brittany, though. I get enough of that from my conscience. Yes, I have a fucking conscience. And guess what, geniuses. Hurting Brittany - that's the fucking last thing I wanted. Two-thirds of this high school knows that we've been best friends since forever, and the reason why none of you morons do stupid shit like hide her shoes and her books is because I've personally beat the fucking crap out of everyone who tried. Fuck it all, even if Lauren fucking Zizes tried to do that kind of stuff to Brittany, I would fucking murder her, and I'm sure all you peons saw how she owned me in February. Not my proudest moment, but what the fuck ever. Screw you all…well, actually, Zizes, if you're watching this, I kind of want to thank you for keeping Puck out of my way right now. _

_If anyone hurts Brittany, I swear to God I will hunt you down. That includes you, Artie Abrams. Don't think I don't know that you called her stupid. You only get a reprieve because she won't let me kick your atrophied ass; considering what you said about me to her, I think I'm being pretty fucking generous. You think Brittany is too dumb to know that I'm a manipulative bitch? Brittany knows me better than anyone, especially that part of me. Even if she's not always right about me not being a bad person; I've treated her badly to, and don't think I don't know it. Yeah, I wanted her to break up with you. But guess what, Four-Eyes? She didn't. She stuck with you; she would've continued to stick with you even if you badmouthed me from hell to back. That is, until you called her stupid. _

_But, yeah, I know that recently, the only one who's really hurting Brittany is me. If I could beat myself up and hurl myself into fucking lockers, I would. I guess I have to settle for my conscience - and you fucking primates who walk the halls of this stupid fucking school - doing that to me or whatever. And what I'm going to say next might actually get me hurled into real lockers, or whatever, but I'm a fucking Bully Whip and you do not mess the fuck around with me, I will give you more Lima Heights hell than you give me. Even if I have to do it myself, because the odds are that Karofsky is going to ditch once he sees this._

_That goes for you bitches on the golf team, too. I hate golf, don't you fucking dare to ask me to join your team. If I'm going to play to the lesbian athlete stereotype…soccer is way fucking cooler. I'm Hispanic, deal with it. _

_Basically…what Brittany didn't say when I was a no-show…she was going to ask me to prom. Me. Santana Lopez. And the more I think about it, the more I hate myself for chickening out. Because seriously? I always say I'm the hottest piece of action at this school, and it would be true except now I see for real that Brittany is the hottest girl at this school, and the entire male population of the school – except maybe Hummel, but hell, even he got action from her, he can't say he didn't like it and still be telling the whole truth – including the whole damn golf team, would've killed to be in my place. Because it's Brittany. _

_I messed up. I fucked up this year so badly. _

_I hurt Brittany and she left me, and I realized too late that I'm a fucking mess without her around to keep me cleaned up and not losing all my shit. _

_Brittany, I'm…I'm so sorry._

_You turned down your boyfriend when he asked you to prom, even though I blew you off. You said that you'd go first, and I know you really meant that you would take every slushy and every shove for me, even all of the talks and the looks that I was so fucking scared of. I wanted to protect you, but I was too busy worrying about protecting myself. I didn't stop to think about that maybe you wanted to protect me, for once, and that you wanted to do it because you loved me. _

_I said you were my best friend, and I meant it. Forever and ever. But you know what else is forever and ever? _

_Me needing you. _

_Me loving you. Me being in love with you. _

_That's right, you fucking Neanderthals. You probably thought I was gay anyway, with all those stupid rumors going around, but bet you didn't know that I'm in love with Brittany S. Pierce, and if I ever get to be with her, I won't be getting my mack on with her just because we're two hot girls who like to stroke the male libido, or because I'm a lizard and I need a warm body under me to digest my food and… damn it, I'm crying. I'm not going to fucking cry._

_Fuck it. If she ever lets me make out with her again, I'll be making out with her because I love her; I love her and I want to sing about making lady babies. I'll fucking sing about it if it means I'll have to steal all the solos from Rachel and Kurt and Wheezy combined. _

_Even if it means Rachel Loser Berry can label me, I don't fucking care._

_I've decided that I'm going to leave this on the camera. In any case, I'm going to the motherland to see the relatives in a few days, so…yeah. Brittany, if you're going to post this on your melted cheese show, like…just let me know beforehand or something. Just tell me, okay? I...won't be mad this time, I promise.  
><em>

_Brittany, I mean everything I said. I know you knew I meant it, but I had to say that. Or whatever the hell. I'm not going to run away anymore. I'll still be scared, but being scared and alone is a million times worse than being scared and having you with me. I'm might still be scared, but I won't hide what you mean to me anymore. _

__ I said it and I still mean it. _I love you. I want to be with you, Brittany Susan Pierce._


End file.
